I'll Stay With You In The Morning
by rycewritestrash
Summary: Bellamy's like a different person when Clarke is sick and she doesn't know how to deal. (Series/Season 01 - Drabble - POV Clarke - Fluff & Humor)


**Authors Note:** _I had these stories posted here originally, before I took a mental health break from writing and deleted my old account. I kept these stories up on Ao3, but I've noticed on FFnet people seem to leave much ruder comments. I didn't really have any bad critiques, but there was a lot of people telling me I needed to write more, or seemingly dissatisfied with the endings. Comments like, "is that it?" Is not encouraging at all and quite honestly can ruin my mood for that whole day. I am getting back into writing fanfiction, because it is something I love and offers some form of community that I enjoy taking part it. That being said, I am never obligated to provide for you, and that moment that this stops being something I enjoy is the moment that I will start to question why I would continue to do it. I am leaving this note on all my old stories, because I will be updated more regularly (once to twice a week) and I'd really appreciate if I could avoid these comments in the future. I don't want to have to resort to not reading the comments at all for my own sanity. Thanks for taking the time to read my thoughts & I hope you can understand where I am coming from. xx Be kind._

* * *

Clarke has a very colorful vocabulary when it comes to Bellamy Blake, but _nurturing _has never been at the top of the list.

It's not so much that she doesn't expect this side of him to exist (little sister, duh); it's more like she just never thought of him being this way towards her, not in real life anyway.

More specifically, she never thought it would be Bellamy following her outside camp to hold her hair back as she falls to her knees and vomits.

Her throat burns when it's over and everything is blurry when she blinks and squints at him over her shoulder, looking positively smug. It's the kind of face he makes whenever he's holding his gun, or walking a girl to his tent, or maybe both at the same time – she doesn't know what weird shit he's into.

His dark curls fall over his eyes when he leans forward and it's so fucking distracting, she vows she's going to cut it all off while he's sleeping, possibly drugged. She has connections and Monty owes her a favor.

He still has his hands tangled in her locks when he raises an eyebrow and says, "You've looked better, Princess."

She snorts, heaves, and vomits again. She thinks she may be dying and says so, even when the logical part of her brain knows it'll pass in a day, and as long as she stays hydrated, she'll be perfectly fine.

_Fuck logic._ She feels like death's ugly twin.

A low chuckle echoes behind her and she tenses at the weight of a palm rubbing circles along her spine, the other tightening its grip on her hair.

Clarke's weak and slightly delirious, so naturally, a brief image of this happening under different circumstances where they're both naked flashes through her mind.

She curses and spits into the grass.

This isn't the first time she's fantasized about fucking him, but it's a little unnerving that it's happening while she's in the middle gagging on bile and slime.

She accepted her attraction to him their first day on the ground, but overtime it's evolved into this – crush? _Shit. Is that seriously the only word to describe it? _ She doesn't have much experience liking someone to the point of having vivid sexual dreams about them while awake, but it's making her feel like a serious pervert and she's mildly disgusted with herself – when she's not actively getting off on it.

"You're going to be fine," he says and she swears she can hear him roll his eyes.

"Says the guy with a herculean immune system."

"I'm glad you've finally acknowledge my superiority, Princess. Try not to forget it in the morning."

"Don't count on it." She cringes, pushing herself up on her feet only to stumble back into him. The hand on her back falls to her hip, pressing her against him, while the other slides down to rub the back of her neck.

He _would_ touch her when she can't properly enjoy it. It's like he knows and is toying with her, which wouldn't be a far stretch if she didn't make it her mission in life to talk about how much she detests him at least once a day, with an audience. If it happens to be when he's surrounded by his harem, it's just a happy coincidence.

It only proves to be a challenge when he's not wearing a shirt, or being a stupidly brave idiot when she least expects it – so like, _always_.

If he keeps it up she's going to have to start raising her expectations, because apparently he likes pretending he doesn't care almost as much as she likes pretending she hates him.

Then there's the small hand gun that peaks out of his pants sometimes, which turns her on for reasons she'd rather not analyze, because she's not ready to fully accept the extent of her perversion.

The touching thing though. That's _new._

It's happened before, a quick reminder he's there, so brief she hardly has time to register it, but sometimes, or right now, it feels deliberate, like he's making an effort.

He pulls her closer and she shudders.

"Cold?" he asks, his breath brushing against her cheek.

"Chills. Sick. It's a symptom," she says a little too quickly. If he notices her blush, he ignores it. Probably assumes she's flushed from the fever, which is totally probable and like sixty percent accurate.

"Think you can pull yourself together to make it back to my tent, or would you like me to carry you?"

She stumbles over a branch and grips his shirt. "What?"

"Is hearing loss a symptom too?"

"No." She grimaces. "I just think you meant to say _my_ tent."

"Nope."

She gulps. _Oh fuck._ "I really think I should stay in my own tent. I mean . . . what would people say?"

His laugh shakes her whole body and she wants to cry. "No offense, Princess, but no one's going to think I'm fucking you looking like that."

It's a fair point, but it still stings. She wonders what he thinks of her on a regular basis, when she doesn't look like she crawled out of her own grave.

"None taken," she mumbles pulling away from his side and wrapping her arms around herself. There's no way she's agreeing to this. Not under these circumstances. Not that there would ever be another opportunity.

Really, this may be her only chance to sleep with Bellamy Blake. In the most literal sense of the word, but her stomach still jolts with the possibility of waking up in his arms, and the sweat of his body heat seeping into her skin, maybe his morning wood pressing against her thigh.

She needs help, a fuck-buddy maybe. Finn's off the table, so . . .

"Look, if I was going to catch this, I would have already. We don't need Monty, or Jasper getting sick too. I'm already running low on bodies to boss around and we need the workers."

He's not exactly wrong – in theory.

"I don't know," she sighs. She does though. She's going to yes, but he can still work for it. She doesn't want to come off eager. If he found out she was looking forward to this he'd never respect her again. She'd be another one of _those _girls. Actually, worse, because at least they're fucking him. What's her excuse?

His fingers dip to the side of her neck and she's terrified he can feel how fast her heart is beating. "It's one night, Clarke. Stop reading so much into it."

* * *

She throws up twice and Bellamy's there both times.

It's a lot of contact she didn't anticipate, and unless he's into to some pretty gross shit, he's probably the least attracted to her he's ever been, if at all, but _god_, she's never been more into him.

She regrets not fighting him harder on their sleeping arrangements, because she may be falling in love with him, which is so fucking ridiculous, she pukes again.

He combs her hair back and she feels it like a pinch in her heart, knowing the comfort is temporary, much like her illness. She swears when he tries to help her back to his flatbed, and insists she's perfectly capable of crawling and walking is for over-achievers. She might be throwing a tantrum, but can't seem to stop herself. She's determined to keep up appearances, so she calls him stupid.

"Jesus, you're like the worst patient ever."

She tries telling him to float himself, but it comes out as an intelligible growl into his fur blankets. He has the comfiest bed in all of the land.

"You say that as if you've tried them all." She stills and glances at him, catching his shiny eyes and the shadow of a smirk. "And here I thought I was special."

"You're annoying." She huffs, rolling over on her side, so her back is to him.

He laughs and nudges leg with his foot. "Hey," he adds softly.

"What?"

She feels his weight disappear from the bed, and almost wonders if he'd rather spend the rest of the night on the ground than deal with her nonsense, but he returns, pulling up into a sitting position against his chest. "Drink."

He holds the makeshift cup in his hands, pressing it to her lips, like she's incapable. It pisses her off and warms her heart in equal measure.

She gulps it down either way, because she's too exhausted to argue.

"Good?"

"For now." She sighs, tugging a loose curl behind her ear.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Do I look any better?" she quips and he grins.

"Too dark to tell."

She grunts and goes to turn away from him again, when he tugs her to him, curling an arm around her waist.

"What are you doing?"

"Go to sleep, Clarke." He sighs, trailing his fingers up her side. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

She does, but under protest.

And the sedative he gave her without asking. He has connections too.

* * *

**A/N: **_Hi! Thanks for reading! There's more to this story posted under rycewritestrash on Ao3._


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